“That’d be Pell,” Marto said.
Sir Pellidas took his eyes off the hawk long enough to take the crossbow from Tithian, then looked back up, sighting along its length. He licked his lips, tracking the hawk across the sky, tightened his grip, and squeezed the trigger.
The string snapped forward, and the quarrel streaked away. Cathan followed its flight until he lost sight of it-then there was a faint, high clang. Marto laughed, clapping Pellidas on his shoulder; the redheaded knight smiled slightly as he handed the crossbow back to Tithian.
Cathan saw the hawk again a moment later, without the farglass. It was dropping now, plummeting earthward like a spent arrow. He watched it fall, wings hanging loosely. It hit the ground with a thud, fifty paces away.
Ebonbane made it all the way out of the scabbard now. Pellidas and Tithian drew their own blades, and Marto pulled a beaked war axe from his belt. Together they crept out of the trees, toward where the bird had hit.
It was half-buried, having dug a furrow in the grassy earth. Now it lay motionless, one wing snapped off, the other bent out of shape. It was a falcon, Cathan saw, but its plumage was copper and silver, its beak made of gold. Its eyes were yellow gems-sapphires, maybe, or topaz. The quarrel, made of hard steel, had caught it mid-breast and punched out its back. Pellidas nudged it with his boot, then reached down and yanked the bolt free. As he did, more bits of metal spilled out of the hole: tiny, toothed gears and springs knocked loose by his shot.
“Karthayan clockwork,” said Marto, who would know. He was from a small town near the fabled capital of Falthana, a rich city known for its tiered gardens and fine tinkers.
Some said the Karthayans had gnomish blood, such was their fondness for mechanical inventions.
Never having seen one, Cathan doubted the existence of gnomes. The thought of a race of mad engineers was altogether strange to him. There was no doubting, though, that the bird wasn’t magical at all. It was some sort of curious machine.
“Have you seen anything like this before?” he asked.
Marto shook his head. “Haven’t been back to Karthay in ten years, though. Gods know what they’ve been up to there.”
“There’s something tied to its leg,” Tithian said.
Cathan raised his eyebrows, then looked closer. His squire was right. Affixed to the hawk’s leg was an ivory tube, the sort of thing couriers used to keep scrolls safe from bad weather. There was something more-a platinum plaque attached to it. Etched into the metal was a symbol Cathan knew welclass="underline" a noble falcon, clutching Paladine’s sacred triangle in its talons.
Marto roared with laughter. “The imperial arms!” he bellowed. “Branchala bite me, Pell-that’s the Kingpriest’s toy you killed!”
Sir Pellidas winced, his ruddy face turning bright crimson. Cathan had to fight back a chuckle. “It’s all right,” he told the mute knight. “You did it by my order.”
He tapped the broken bird with Ebonbane’s tip, making sure it wasn’t going to spring back to life, then bent down and pulled the scrolltube from its leg. Even before he broke the seal that covered the cylinder’s cap-blue wax, with the falcon-and-triangle stamped in it as well-he guessed the missive inside was for him. Sure enough, it was.
Cathan, the scroll read-in the Common tongue, for Cathan had never been very good at reading the language of Istar’s church-my old friend:
I write this epistle with mixed feelings in my heart. I had hoped to be joyful, for the twentieth anniversary of my coronation draws nigh. Indeed, I meant to summon you to my side anyway, to celebrate that glorious day. Sadly, though, I have heavier tidings to tell.
Marwort the Illustrious, who has long served me as envoy of the Order of High Sorcery, has died.
I know you have no love for wizards. Nor do I, be sure: The Black Robes remain a blight in the god’s sight, and those who wear the White and Red shame themselves by associating with such fiends. Marwort, however, has remained a steadfast part of my court for as long as I have ruled. I may not have approved of his sorcerous ways, but he was still a friend to the empire, and I mourn him.
For this reason, my friend, I am summoning you back to the Lordcity. Soon the Conclave will send a new wizard to take Marwort’s place. I would like you at my side, as you were in olden days, when they do. Return to Istar at once.
Beldinas Pilofiro
Voice of Paladino and true Kingpriest of Istar
PS: I hope the bearer of this missive amuses you. It is a new device, a gift from the Patriarch of Falthana. I am eager to hear what you have to say about it.
Cathan read the scroll twice, then rolled it up again and tucked it into his sleeve. The Kingpriest was right, he cared nothing at all for Marwort. The old wizard had seemed harmless enough, had even sided with the empire against his own order a few times. More than a few, actually. But he was still a sorcerer, and not to be trusted. With the Conclave sending a new wizard to take his place…
Cathan’s eyes went back to the broken hawk sprawled in the soil and wet grass. He sighed, then turned back toward the knights’ camp.
“Bring that,” he said to Marto and Pellidas as he strode into the wood, Tithian at his heels. “The pieces, too, and be quick about it. We ride for the Lordcity within the hour.”
CHAPTER 3
Twelfthmonth, 942 I.A.
There were five Towers of High Sorcery in the world, each of them old beyond telling and alive with the power of the moons above. Four stood within the cities of mortal men, constant reminders of magic’s might. They loomed over Daltigoth, the Capitol of Ergoth, and Palanthas, the greatest city in the knightly realm of Solamnia. Istar, for its part, had two-one in the Lordcity itself, and one in Losarcum, the fabled Stone City, which had been the heart of the kingdom of Dravinaar before war and annexation made that proud realm into the Holy Empire’s two southernmost provinces.
Mages of all robes-the White of good, the Red of neutrality, and even the hated Black-dwelt within the Towers studying and teaching magic, united by their love for their Art.
Each held artifacts and lore of inestimable value, as well as vast laboratories where the most learned wizards toiled to discover new uses for the magic. Those few common folk who had been inside the Towers spoke of countless wonders: demons imprisoned in shards of crystal, hallways and rooms that changed size and shape without warning, windows through which one could gaze out upon lands hundreds of leagues away. Statues got up and moved when no one was looking, and flashes of light and eerie sounds came from nearly every door or window. Even in Daltigoth, where they tolerated magic, folk gave wide berth to the Tower, and to the surrounding grove of enchanted pine trees. In the other cities, where people viewed magic and its practitioners with suspicion, they gave the lofty spires dark glances, signing the triangle or Jolith’s horns or the twin teardrops of Mishakal against whatever evils lurked within.
Of all the Towers, however, the greatest was the one folk didn’t see. It stood not in any city, but deep, deep in Wayreth Forest, an eldritch wood in the north of Kharolis. The forest appeared on few maps, for it tended to move, bordering the fabled elf realm of Qualinesti one day, tucked among the hills near the city of Xak Tsaroth the next. Such was Wayreth’s curious power that none saw the Tower except those the mages wished to see it. From everyone else, the Tower hid.